


Poor Impulse Control

by ktbl



Series: Paper Rings [1]
Category: Mortal Kombat (Video Games)
Genre: CageBlade - Freeform, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Comic: Mortal Kombat X, Consent, Developing Relationship, Emotional Baggage, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Dates, Fluff and Smut, Foreplay, Guilt, Kissing, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Smut, Unresolved Tension, Vaginal Sex, mkx, poor impulse control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:14:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23955940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktbl/pseuds/ktbl
Summary: In which Sonya keeps a promise and demonstrates poor impulse control.--A minute later as she’s industriously shoveling leftovers into her mouth, it sinks in that she has just agreed to go on a date with Johnny Cage. The realization makes her nearly choke. She spends the next hour wondering if she can make up an excuse to cancel, a last-minute scheduling change, some mission, something. She considers praying for another invasion. By the time she’s neck-deep soaking in her bathtub, she’s come around to the idea, and it’s why she agreed to it in the first place. He’s a cocky Hollywood playboy who thinks he’s the best thing in the world… but he has stood with her, fought with her, for the entirety of the Netherrealm War. He’s never tried to avoid the front lines, even once he realized he’d gotten in deep. He did save her life in the Sky Temple, too.Most importantly, he did kick Kano’s ass on her behalf.This could even be fun.
Relationships: Sonya Blade/Johnny Cage
Series: Paper Rings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1727047
Comments: 5
Kudos: 49





	1. First Date

**Author's Note:**

> Another installment from my brain in the idea of "how did they get from A to B?" while working on another project. These two are starting to clamor for more writing time, since we have nearly 25 years of undescribed canon timeline to explore, and Sonya's brain and character is a topic that utterly fascinates me.
> 
> Chapter one is pretty clean; two is almost entirely pure smut with a side order of self-induced guilt trip.

The week after Shinnok is thwarted - brought low by Johnny Cage and trapped inside his amulet by Raiden - Sonya Blade, consummate hardass of the Special Forces, tries to lose herself in work. There are funerals to attend and mountains of paperwork that she can’t avoid, long nights while she and the rest of the SF work to make sense of the new status of the realms. The biggest threat now is Quan Chi and the tumult in Outworld. She has five people that have survived the Netherrealm War: three members of her squad, a telepathic smart-ass swordsman named Takahashi Kenshi, and Cage, accomplished and supreme pain in her ass.

With the new status quo, she’s suddenly, painfully, aware of just how lonely she is.

She drives herself harder than before, despite the nebulous peace on the horizon, and comes home late every night hoping that exhaustion will carry her into dreamless sleep. Nearly a week to the day after she almost died - after Jax tried to kill her, which for her is far worse than Shinnok’s attempt - she stands with the refrigerator door open, staring into it vacantly. Today has been a good one, physically and mentally exhausting. It began with notification of her being jumped up a grade to Lieutenant Colonel, and mounds of paperwork broken up by the sweet reprieve of watching new SF recruits run through the obstacle course.

Now, something far more threatening than any obstacle course or mission briefing confronts her. She sees the caller ID and lets the phone ring as she reaches into the nearly empty fridge and pulls out containers of pasta and garlic bread that have seen far better days, but are her only option. She snatches up the phone and accepts the call just before it goes to voicemail.

“Blade.”

“Hey, Major Hottie. It’s Johnny.” He sounds far too cheerful, and she wants to reach through the phone and kick him in his too-pretty face.

She sighs, exasperated. “I know it’s you. I have caller ID. What’s the crisis? Chip a nail? Forget a line? Get turned down for a date?”

“Nice to hear your voice too. Not sure how I feel that you assume the worst when I call.” She can hear the grin on the other end of the phone. “Am I interrupting something?”

“I was about to have dinner. Just got off duty and I’m fried.” She eyes the still-cold containers. “Putting you on speaker. Sometimes I wish I was Shokan. I don’t have enough hands for this.”

“Gaaah.” She doesn’t even need to close her eyes to imagine him doing a full-body over-exaggerated shudder. “That’s nightmare fuel. It’s after nine, Sonya-“

“Yeah, and where I was raised, good boys don’t call after seven. Little late for a booty call, Cage.”

“Well, if it was a booty call, would I have had a shot?” She snorts, and he chuckles. “And I’ve never been a good boy… I was expecting voicemail, honestly. Wanted to check in with you. It’s been a week since we kicked ass and saved the world. Wanted to hear how you’re doing.”

“It’s shit. Funerals. Lots of paperwork. Planning the next phase of operations.”

“Well, maybe I can change that. Do you remember the Jinsei chamber? That little chat while you were getting fixed up?”

“Maybe. What part? Some of it’s a little fuzzy.” She doesn’t want to admit how much she remembers, how weak and vulnerable she was. What he asked - and how she answered. Instead, she dumps pasta onto a plate, wets a paper towel, and wraps it around the garlic bread, pops them both into the microwave.

“Dinner and movie still on the table?”

Shit, he _is_ asking. And she can’t find a reason to say no. One date can’t hurt, right? She hums, giving herself a moment to think, stretch it out as she watches the numbers on the microwave count down.

“Yeah. Like I said… as long as it’s not one of your movies. Don’t make me regret it.” There’s the ding of the microwave, and she opens it, pokes the pasta with a fork. It should be edible. “Nothing exorbitant though, okay? I’m not dressing up. I don’t do fancy. I promise I won’t come down in battle rattle, and that’s about it.”

“As long as you show up, I don’t care what you wear. Or don’t wear. Whatever you’d prefer-”

“Ugh.” She rolls her eyes, and moves to the table, balancing her dinner and the phone.

“What’s your schedule like? I’ve got some filming to do over the next couple of weeks, but maybe we could find something that works and overlaps with one of my breaks.”

“Jumped right back into it, huh?”

“Hey, gotta pay the bills somehow.”

“I do not even want to _think_ about what your finances are like. Do you even know how to balance a checkbook? Do you even know what a checkbook _is?_ ” She doesn’t wait for a response. “One day, we’ll get you a real job. Until then… Well… no ops planned over the next few weeks, it’s mostly mopping up. Nothing major on my calendar unless shit hits the fan, and that’s unpredictable. You got something in mind?”

“I can get things set up with the studio so that you can get in, get an escort to the set whenever you get down here, and we can head out for dinner after. When do you think you could come down?” He sounds excited. That sends up warning flares for her.

“I’ve got a couple of days coming… I can swing next week. Planning more than a week out is hard right now. Friday and Saturday are clear. I could do Thursday, if you were serious about me coming down after you’d finished filming. Or just come down Friday-“

“I’d like - if you feel like coming on Thursday, that’d be great. I’ve seen what you do, would be fun to show you around my side of things.” She can hear him moving around. She’s been in his condo once before, collecting him before a mission. If he’s in his “office”, it’s a mess - she wouldn’t be surprised to hear something fall on him. “I can get us reservations somewhere nice, and tickets to-“

“Hey, slow down there.” He sounds so damn enthusiastic, but then again - she’s just agreed to go on a date with him, and he’s been angling for that for years. “If I get down there, I’m…” She trails off, not sure she wants to actually voice it. Even though he’s a walking cliche of Hollywood playboy, he stood with her through some of the most terrible experiences of her life. And he’s rarely tried to take advantage of her - not after the first time at the Pit, anyway. “I’ll be coming down there to see you, right? I’d be just as happy with takeout and throwing in a movie at your place, than going out somewhere fancy.”

“If you’re coming down here, I want to make it worth your while. And what’s the point of being in Hollywood and playing the fame game if I don’t get to use it sometime?”

“Look, getting off base and eating something I didn’t have to make or didn’t come out of a package or a mess hall, will be great. Doesn’t need to be fancy.” She eyes the reheated linguine and shrugs. At least it’s not the MREs hidden in her desk.

“Let me have a little fun. Give you some of the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. Please. You deserve some downtime, get treated like a queen.”

“I don’t know, Johnny. I’m not that kind of person. Military brat, remember? And farm girl, after. Never saw the appeal in all the bright lights and fancy dresses.” A lie, in part - there were definitely a few nights she would have been up for fancy dresses and the spoiled rich girl's life. Usually the ones after she’d spent the day helping on the farm and was a hot, sticky, dirty mess.

“Wait, farm girl? How’d I not know this?”

“Never asked,” she replied smugly. “Lotta things about me you don’t know. Anyway. My dinner’s getting cold and won’t hold up getting reheated again. I’m off duty around sixteen hundred on Thursday. Unless I can pull some strings, that means I won’t be down for a couple of hours after that.”

“I think - hang on, let me find my schedule. It’s here, somewhere.” More shuffling, a muffled swear, and the sound of some things falling to the floor. “That’s perfect, I’m supposed to be done by five, which actually means seven, so you don’t need to rush. I’ll text you the address. Just bring some ID and they’ll get you escorted to the set.”

“Least amount of effort I have to put in,” she snorts, “the better. We’ll see how bad traffic is.”

“I’ll get it all set up. Royal treatment, babe,” he promises.

“Can I take it back? I don’t want royal treatment. I’d just like - a little time off. Be a civilian for a little bit.” She wonders where that admission came from. “See you on Thursday, then.”

“I’ll count the minutes,”he promises, and she’s not sure he’s joking.

A minute later as she’s industriously shoveling leftovers into her mouth, it sinks in that she has just agreed to go on a date with Johnny Cage. The realization makes her nearly choke. She spends the next hour wondering if she can make up an excuse to cancel, a last-minute scheduling change, some mission, something. She considers praying for another invasion. By the time she’s neck-deep soaking in her bathtub, she’s come around to the idea, and it’s why she agreed to it in the first place. He’s a cocky Hollywood playboy who thinks he’s the best thing in the world… but he has stood with her, fought with her, for the entirety of the Netherrealm War. He’s never tried to avoid the front lines, even once he realized he’d gotten in deep. He did save her life in the Sky Temple, too.

Most importantly, he did kick Kano’s ass on her behalf.

This could even be fun.

“Fifteen minutes,” the director calls, and Johnny kips up off the ground, landing hard on his feet and shaking his head. He has no idea what is so damn hard about this scene - this is the fifth take, and he’s fed up with it. Between his co-star trying to put a little more into the kiss than he wants, and the fight scene that follows directly on its heels, he’s tired and frustrated. At this rate, he won’t be any fun tonight. Sonya’s due in any minute, and the absolute last thing he wants is delays before he can get out of here and take her out. Take her out _on a date_ , a legitimate he-asked-and-she-said-yes date. The longer he’s here, the less time he has with her. The only thing worse would be her seeing this clusterfuck.

“The hell is going on?” He runs a hand through his hair in annoyance. “This is - look, it shouldn’t be so hard. We argue, we kiss, they drop in, and then we run the fight. Can everyone just hit the marks so we can get out of here?” He runs his hands through his hair again. “Can I get some water?” His throat is dry and he can feel the claws of a headache starting to dig in, so he walks back towards his chair. Except his chair is occupied. He’s ready to snap at whatever idiot is in it - there’s only one Johnny Cage, and the last time someone not him sat in his chair, it went badly.

Perched in his chair, looking inexplicably uncomfortable, is the woman he can’t stop thinking about. Black pants that are definitely not military issue, an emerald green button-front shirt that looks like silk with the way it catches the light, her hair back in a ponytail, and the combat boots he’s pretty sure she never takes off. Her hands are busy with a baseball cap, fingers curving the bill methodically. There she is, Sonya fucking Blade, sitting in _his_ chair on _his_ set, and he can’t help the grin from spreading wide across his face, along with a little worry about how much she’s seen. He can feel some of the wound prosthetic on his face shifting, and is pretty sure makeup’s going to rake him over the coals. It’s worth it, though.

“You’re a lot better looking than the last person who sniped my chair.”

“Also a lot less into soul-sucking.” She pauses. “Nice jacket. And head wound. You want your seat?” She leans forward as if to rise, and he reaches a hand out to stop her.

“I’ll tell wardrobe and makeup. Stay in the chair, though. Suits you.” He uncaps the bottle of water he’s handed, takes a long drink, careful to not get any on his costume. “How long you been here, baby?”

“Not your baby,” she snaps, and he hears a titter behind him. “Got in between takes, maybe fifteen or twenty minutes ago. Traffic wasn’t bad.” There’s something off, and Johnny can’t quite put a finger on it. She looks amazing dressed in something other than her uniform - but something about her is like a spring wound tight. She’s compacted, trying to occupy the least space, catch the fewest eyes. They’ve never met like this, unrelated to the Netherrealm War. Hell, he can’t think of the last time he’s seen her out of her unorthodox uniform. It doesn’t sit right with him. Despite all of that, her voice remains cool as in a mission briefing. “You’re part of quite the… process.”

“Think of it as just a really extensive op, right? Lots of support staff. Just a little more complicated.”

“You tell my supply sergeant that.”

“Oh no,” Johnny knows the sergeant in question and takes another drink. “I’m not _that_ stupid.”

“Mmm,” she responds, smirking a bit. “Anyway… I can always come back some other time when you’re a little less… distracted. Don’t want to make it hard for you to work. You’ve got enough going on. I brought something to work on-”

“You drive down here for the weekend and you bring work with you? Hell, Sonya.” He shakes his head, more amused than annoyed. “War’s over. Drop off DEFCON 2 or whatever you run at. Shinnok’s in his amulet, Fujin and Raiden have him locked up with everything the realms can muster. The only thing distracting me is you, and the idea of getting out of here,” he says with a wink. There’s no response; nothing’s sapped the tension keeping her erect in the chair. He reaches out a hand, touches her briefly on the shoulder. “Seriously, you’re no problem. That’s my chair, and I’m not sitting. I’ll get someone to get you water, and you just… stay there. That way we’re not playing phone tag when I’m done. Maybe another half hour. If you can manage that.”

“There’s still Jax, and Stryker, and Nightwolf, and the rest,” she reminds Johnny soberly. “That war’s over, but I’m not done fighting.”

“Stay, Sonya. Please.” He can hear the plea in his voice, and it surprises him as much as it does her, the way her eyebrows inch upward. “It’ll only be longer if we need more than one good take.” He jerks his chin towards the director. “He’s the boss, and so we wait til he’s good with it, but I think we’ll hit the mark on the next one.” Every incentive he has to make the next shot perfect is looking at him with glacial eyes. “You can critique my performance over dinner and tell me everything I did wrong.” He finally gets the smile he’s been shooting for with that.

“Alright. If you insist. Sneaky way of still getting me to see one of your movies.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.” He squeezes her shoulder in parting as he’s called away. Makeup descends on him to do touch-ups, and someone from wardrobe is there to tuck and adjust his jacket and shirt, matching it to the reference sheet, and then he’s back in his element, surrounded by people, the center of attention. He makes eye contact with Sonya once, partway through as he’s surrounded by people, and he can’t shake the feeling that something’s still off.

Two takes later they wrap, and he’s hustled away to costume and makeup, and he’s still thinking about it. He’s still chewing it over as he heads back out to meet Sonya. It’s the smile, he decides.

It never made it to her eyes.

Sonya is convinced half the eyes in the restaurant are on them. He’s Johnny Cage, and she’s nobody. After they dropped their cars at his condo, he walked her down a side street and they make small talk along the way. She had a sickening feeling in her stomach, seeing a line snaking along the sidewalk. He ignored it completely, breezing right in the front doors of a restaurant. As they’re guided to a table in the back, a scent lingers in the air she can’t quite place sets her on edge. It’s familiar and somehow off-putting. She takes the seat that puts her back in the most defendable position and gives her the most visual contact with the rest of the room. Johnny snorts, shaking his head and pulling off his sunglasses, tucking them into a jacket pocket.

“Seriously? Take the night off. No one’s gonna come through the windows here.” He reaches for her hands and she pulls them back reflexively. “At least you didn’t bring your gauntlets.”

“I considered it. Being ready is the only way you end up to be an old soldier, not a dead one.” He holds his hands up, surrendering. She looks over the menu and winces. This is definitely going to eat into her paycheck. “You brought me out for barbecue?” That’s the smell - a smoker, and meat, and it brings memories back of family barbecues and Scorpion’s searing hellfire both.

“Everyone says this is good barbecue, and Texas-style on top of that, so I figure it’ll either be good and you can relax or it’ll be terrible and you can yell at people. Either way, you’ll be happy. And if you’re happy, I’m happy. I can think of some other ways that tonight ends with Texan on top, too, and that would make me even happier.”

Incorrigible, insolent _actor_. She adjusts the menu in front of her face to hide the smile fighting to appear.“You wouldn’t know what to do with that.”

“Try me.” He winks. “So, you gonna tell me what all that was at the studio?”

“What all what was?” She looks at him, mentally adjusting her budget to live off ramen for a couple of weeks. But if it’s legitimate barbecue, like what she grew up with… it’ll be worth the ramen diet.

“You. Not really any of your snappy comments. You’re still kinda… toned down. This is Hollywood. You’re supposed to be larger than life, not hiding in the shadows.” He raises a well-groomed brow. “So talk to me.”

“And here I thought I was an ice queen, and this was expected.”

“No, that’s just when I hit on you. Or anyone else does.” He shifts, leans forward. “C’mon. We’re out celebrating Shinnok’s defeat, saving the world. So why so serious?”

“I don’t like… this.” She gestures with a hand. “LA. No one’s who they say they are. Everyone makes their way with masks.” His eyes widen and he sucks in a breath. “I’m used to knowing who everyone is at a glance. Rank, specialty, it’s all out there open and clear.” She takes a sip of water and sets the menu down. “Beyond that, though… I was at your job. Your place of work. You’re a pain in my ass but you’ve never done anything but respect me while we’ve run operations, or been anything less than - mostly - appropriately respectful, in front of my subordinates. Even if I don’t like or understand what you do, I owe you the respect you deserve at your workplace. If you want me to give you a hard time and harass you in front of them, you don’t have to ask twice. I’ll make the time for that.”

“Hey, any time you want to come on set, you’re welcome to.” He grins and she rolls her eyes.“My chair is your chair, my trailer is your trailer.”

“That’s disgusting,” she says, wrinkling her nose at the idea, and tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear. “Your place is enough of a mess. I can’t imagine you in a trailer and someone else trying to find a spare spot to sleep on. God, they must just consign all of it to an incinerator.” She feigns thoughtfulness, tapping a finger on her lips. “Maybe that’s where we get the trailers for the test range, now that I think of it…”

“I’m insulted,” he says, teeth flashing bright and white. “Not every time. I like going home at the end of the day. Convenience of living in LA, I guess. Same reason you live on base, right?”

“You wouldn’t know it with the damn size of it these days.” She reaches for her water, takes a drink, and hold the glass in her hands. “Swear it’s getting longer to get to the main post from housing every week. Though after paying for my half of this, I’ll be lucky to have gas money.”

“Hey, my treat.” Johnny reaches a hand out across the table.“I was serious, Sonya. I asked if you’d allow me take you to dinner and a movie, and I’m footing the bill.”

“I can pay my own way-“

“I know you can, but that’s not the point. I asked you out, I’m paying. You give me a hard time about me having so much money that I blow it on stupid stuff. How else do you want me to spend it?” Under the table, he nudges her with his foot. “Get what you want. Hell - you know what kind of stuff is good. Order for both of us. You’re in charge. Surprise me.”

She blinks, and as Johnny sets down his menu, the waiter appears with surprising promptness. With a sidelong glance at Johnny, she puts on the Texan drawl she’s made a great effort to lose, and orders for both of them. The waiter nods and steps back, and Johnny stares openly.

“Holy shit. That was a hundred percent Texas country girl. Straight out of central casting. Any chance I can get you in some sequined denim..?”

“You’d like to get me out of it more, I think.” She looks up at him, lips curving ever so slightly. “I was like that, once. Haven’t been for a long time.”

He lets out a low whistle and shakes his head. “God, I’d kill to see high school you. Probably beating the boys off with sticks.”

“With my fists, feet, and my daddy’s old sniper rifle.” She smiles and bats her lashes, and sips her water again. He’s lost for words for a moment, and she watches him open his mouth, close it, open it again. She likes it better when he’s caught off-guard, not pretending to be the be-all end-all. “Well, you gonna say something or just stare?”

“Just wondering what else I don’t know. Out of uniform, you’re a whole different woman. Wondering what else I don’t know. You had duty before you came down? What were you doing?”

“Oh, you have no idea what you’re missing.” She taps her fingers on the worn wood of the table and shrugs. “The usual. Promotion means new paperwork, shuffling personnel, figuring out the new responsibilities. Today was fucking around with the recruits on the obstacle course, too. And someone in R&D has some tech they think may work for the portals, so we don’t need to rely on… magic.” She wrinkles her nose as she says it, like she’s smelled something awful.

“Sweet! Let me know how that goes. It would be a hell of a lot more convenient than needing to call Sparky every time we need a hand.” Suddenly he pauses. “Wait, promotion? To what?”

“Sparky?” Sonya cannot believe his audacity.“As you like to remind me, Raiden is a _god_. You should show him a little respect.”

“I show him a _little_ respect,” Johnny retorts, earning a faint smile. “So. Promotion. Talk.” He pauses. “Wait, does this mean I can’t call you Major Babe anymore?”

“Small blessings,” she groans. “Lieutenant Colonel, now.”

“That’s gonna be a lot harder to work into a bit, but give me time. Congratulations, Sonya. Seriously.”

“Thanks.”

He’s clearly waiting for more, and when nothing comes, moves onward gamely. “What’d you think of what you saw at the set? I mean, aside from me kicking ass-“

“You mean the way you kept copping a feel of your girlfriend’s ass every time you did a take? And the way you’re still weak on the left side?”

“That’s for the shot, babe,” Johnny straightens in his chair. “I’m not interested in her. She’s _definitely_ not my girlfriend. And that’s the choreography.”

“Uh-huh. You certainly looked like you were enjoying yourself.”

“That’s the role. My job is to make everyone believe it. If you believe it, then I’m doing it right.”

“Never going to understand this place.”

A sommelier appears at Johnny’s elbow with a bottle of wine with a level of stealth Sonya envies - he’d make a good soldier. “Compliments of the house.”

Moments later, wine tasted and approved, filled glasses in hand, Johnny raises his up.

“To your promotion. Lieutenant Colonel Blade.”

“To you saving my ass,” she counters, “so I could get the promotion.”

“Oh, so you’re giving me credit for your promotion?” He clinks his glass against hers. “You earned that all yourself. Jax’d be damn proud, and I bet your dad would, too. And we’ll get Jax back and he can tell you himself.”

“He’ll give me shit for outranking him,” she responds, sipping her wine. “Though I’ll give him hell for it, for a little bit at least.” She leans back a little, setting the glass down. “When we get him back.”

“We’ll get him back.” He reaches for her hand, his expression serious. “Promise. We’ll get him back, and all the rest of them too.”

She reaches over and squeezes his hand, once and briefly, before it retreats to her lap. “Nice thought, but I’m… I wish I could be as confident as you.” She can tell the admission startles him. “I want him back. I miss my best friend.” She closes her eyes, fingers tight around the stem of the wine glass. _You’re on a date, Blade. Guard back up, he’s not here for your bullshit._

“I don’t miss being punched in the face, but he was a good guy.” Johnny ventures, and she feels his foot nudge hers again. “So. You going to tell me everything else I did wrong on set?”

“You spent hours filming, and how much of the movie will that actually be?”

“Something like five minutes.”

“You’re kidding me.” Her eyes go wide in disbelief. “All that - all those people, all of that, for _five minutes_?”

“Well, in one day we do a bunch of different scenes. When everyone’s actually on the ball it’s a lot less work and goes faster. It’s fun. I get to fight-“

“Pretend to fight,” she mutters, and he looks genuinely wounded at that; it doesn’t slide off him like her jibes usually do.

“Okay, now I have to ask. What is it with you?” He spreads his hands along the edge of the weathered table. “You give me hell about acting, doing this for fun, being good at what I do and using my skills to make money and enjoy myself. What about it is so bad?”

She’s managed to get him on the defensive, and winces inwardly. Well, she’s already got her foot in her mouth, why stop now? “You’re good, Johnny. You’re really good. You’ve trained under some of the world’s best martial arts masters. You go pretend to be somebody else, you get lambasted in the media, and you keep going back for more like a kicked dog. You could do so much. SF would find - _I_ would find- a use for you. So why do you just keep going back where they make fun of you? Where they don’t appreciate it?”

“They do appreciate me, but in different ways. But SF… that’s your thing. I like working with you, but military service wouldn’t be fun.” Johnny eyes her. “And I want fun. You do what you do for a bunch of different reasons, right? Duty, and family, and all that. But you wouldn’t do it if you didn’t enjoy it at some level, right?” She grunts once, motioning for him to continue.

“You do what you do because you like it, one way or another. And I do what I do for the same reason. I like it. I like making people happy, like making some kind of magic, like having - well.” He shakes his head. “I love my job. I get to do a lot of stuff and I can travel and yeah, I can show off how good I am at what I do. Working with SF - working with you - was good, and I love kicking ass with you. I’d do it forever, if I could,” and she’s terrified at that implication, and says nothing as he continues, “but your rank-and-file is not my thing. Can you imagine me in charge of a platoon?”

“You’re allowed a squad.” She grins despite herself. “We need that many to keep an eye on you.”

“Keep an eye on me?” He feigns indignation. “I don’t need a babysitter!”

“Except for that one time.”

“It was _one_ oni!”

“It was enough.” She wags a finger. “You could have gotten yourself killed! No, that squad is to keep you out of trouble. You need round-the-clock supervision.”

“You’re just angry that you missed getting first hit.” He reaches across the table, brushes his fingertips across the back of her hand. She freezes and looks up at him, and forces a smile. He frowns slightly. “Hey, none of that.”

“None of what?”

“The plastic smile. You look like someone told you to smile or they’d shoot you.” He sighs, runs his fingers across her knuckles again. “Let’s eat, get back home, and watch a movie, okay? You look like the cliche of a hot chick on a date with a slimeball and you don’t want to be here.”

That gets a short, sharp laugh. “I’m not good at this, Johnny. Give me my gauntlets, or even a gun, and a target, and I’m fine. But this…” She gestures with her free hand. “Not my thing. Not that I don’t want to be off-base, eating real food, but you don’t eat barbecue in a place like this.” She looks at their hands and turns hers over, fingertips brushing against his palm. He looks down at their linked hands, then at her face, and there’s something she can’t identify in his expression. Something deep inside her twists and her heart jumps out of rhythm. “Next time we do something on base, I’ll get you to up. Bunch of the guys have cookouts, a little contest, sometimes.”

“Sold. I’ll bring the beer.”

“Hah. That’ll put a dent in even _your_ bank account.”

Johnny unlocks the door and ushers her in. “You’ve been in here before, don’t need the tour, right?”

“Definitely don’t need the tour, and thank God you cleaned up,” Sonya says as they walk in. She bends over to unlace her boots partway, sliding them off. “I see you at least got the beer bottle collection away.”

She appraises the room reflexively. She’s been here only briefly, and the casual luxury on display is unsettling. His couch cost as much as a couple of months of housing allowance, not to mention the mortgage on this place alone. It’s decorated for ease and pleasure - soft carpet, attractive paintings, everything convenient. She gives in to the temptation to take off her socks and wriggle her toes in the thick carpet, dropping the socks into her boots. It’s a damn nice carpet. She pokes around for a few minutes and then drops bonelessly on the couch, grabbing a script from the coffee table and flipping through it as he busies himself in the kitchen.

“Hey, hands off that. Confidential. You want to see how it ends, you go to the movies like everyone else,” he calls from the kitchen, pulling out a large pot. “Or, I mean, I can take you to the premiere. Get you in a nice slinky dress, limo, champagne, walk you down the red carpet.” He laughs at the look of utter horror she knows is on her face. “Movie’s already cued up, grab the remote and hit play. I’ll be over in a couple.”

“You just ate upwards of a pound of barbecue, and you’re back in the kitchen? The hell are you doing, Johnny?” He looks at the pot, drizzles in a small amount of oil, and grins to himself. Once she’s out of the public eye, here’s the Sonya he knows and, yes, loves. He knows it, Raiden knows it, is pretty sure Kenshi knows it. Pretty sure everyone knows it except her. And if she does, she’s pretending she doesn’t.

“Making popcorn, and not cheating with a bag,” he throws back. “Not a movie without popcorn, and I promised royal treatment. That doesn’t come out of a microwave bag.” It takes a few minutes, and then he places a bowl of fresh popcorn on the coffee table, and then a pair of beers.

“You actually know how to make popcorn on the stove?” Sonya raises her eyebrows as he sits down beside her, careful to leave space between them, and she leans over and picks up a single piece of popcorn, eyeing it the way he’s seen her eye Outworld food - like it’s going to kill her.She pops the puff into her mouth, and her eyebrows shift slightly higher. “Not bad. You do this for everyone?”

“Just the pretty ones.” He winks at her, sliding a hand up her thigh, and she slaps it with one of her own. He links her fingers with his for a moment, then lets go to grab the remote. Pressing play, he leans back against the leather of the couch. The title card comes up, and he sees some of the tension in her jaw and shoulders recede.

“Goonies?” Sonya says, faintly disbelieving.

“I remember you said you hadn’t seen it. I have a list and we’re going to go through it,” he informs her. “No matter how long it takes. You’re joining the movie reserves - one weekend a month, two weeks a year.”

“You are nothing like the reserves.” She leans forward and plucks the beers off the table and hands him one. When she settles back down, she’s tucked up next to him, shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip, and he almost drops the bottle and popcorn both at the pressure of her body against his. “How long’s this list?”

“Best Picture awards for the last fifty years is a good starting point. Plus, well, the good ones. Like this.”

“Thank fuck you don’t have one on there.”

“Yet.” He winks and slings an arm around her shoulders and _she lets him_ , and he’s sure if Quan Chi and the revenants showed up right now, he’d die - but he’d die a happy man. His fingers play over the curve of her shoulder and he can feel the heat of her body through the silk shirt. Thank God he’s seen this a dozen times, because he’s not going to be able to focus on a single line.

As the credits begin to roll, Sonya leans forward and sets her empty bottle on the table. “Well, that’s my cue, then. You’ve put up with me enough tonight.”

She feels Johnny reach a hand around her waist and pull her back, onto his lap. She’s astonished that she doesn’t resist. His hands tighten for a moment, as if in equal surprise. “Hell no, LTC. You’ve had as much as me, and you’re tinier. You’re not driving around the block, let alone back to base. You crash in my bed and I’ll take the couch.” His voice is tight, and it’s got to kill him to make the offer.

“Not gonna do that to you. Johnny Cage, sleeping on his couch instead of six thousand count sheets? Your couch is better than my bed, helluva lot better than a bunk. I’ll be fine. Toss me a blanket and pillow and I’m good.” That said, she would like nothing more than to kiss him, and she can’t figure out why. Maybe it’s good barbecue, beer, and the fact that he is attractive. She’ll die before she tells him that, though. She’d never hear the end of it.

“Y’know, my bed _is_ big enough for two.” His voice is still off - some of the cocky pride, but also - no. Not nervousness. Can’t be. Man’s got a little black book the size of some of her field manuals, he wouldn’t be nervous around _her_.

“Surprised it’s not big enough for four. But I wouldn’t mind not sleeping alone tonight. If you’re making the offer.” The words are out faster than she can haul them back in. It’s true enough, and she’s willing to admit it.

His hands freeze, and she feels every muscle in him go taut. “You serious, Sonya?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” She shifts, grasps his chin in her fingers, and before she can overthink it, before he has a chance to give a mouthy retort, she pulls him to her lips. She kisses him, long and slow, feeling her blood warm. He makes a noise of surprise but it’s quickly silenced, and he opens his mouth to hers. His surprise melts away quickly in favor of hot tongues and a sudden shared need to find a way to occupy the same physical space. The thought crosses her mind - briefly - that he tastes unfairly good, and then a second thought is quick on its heels, wondering why it took her so long to do this. After a few moments she pulls away, not far, trying to gain some control of her breathing, and meets his eyes.

She is ready for surprise, ready for concern, ready for disbelief, just about anything except the blatant yearning on his face. His eyes close for a moment and then she feels one of his hands cup her cheek. He opens his mouth to say something and then shakes his head minutely, clearly thinking better of it. He leans forward and kisses her again with heat and urgency that calls to something in her. She recognizes it, the answer to a hunger she’s been long denying. Her hands splay across his chest and she tries to make her interest in him, her seriousness about this, as clear as she can. It mostly involves her tongue in his mouth and a hope that she’s not misinterpreting the noises he’s making.

They separate again and she tries to pull air back into her lungs, finding it harder than before. Her eyes rest on him, wondering what the response will be, afraid of it. She expects a crow of victory - not the shaky breathing that follows. “You been saving that?” His voice catches and he leans back against the couch, his hands still on her, thumb sliding across her chin just under her lips. It’s one of the few times she’s ever seen him uncertain, his brow wrinkled slightly. Something about it makes her think he’s afraid, but she’s never seen him anything but self-assured.

“Maybe,” she allows, and he laughs, and leans forward again to press his forehead against hers.

“Got anything left, or was that it?”

“Shit, what’s the line. Take me to bed or lose me forever?”

“All the movies, all the lines you could quote, and you use _that_ one.” The indecision, the worry, is gone and his shoulders drop just enough to set her at ease. She can feel it under her fingertips. He adjusts her on his lap, one hand sliding under her knees and the other around her shoulders, lifting her up off the couch. They’ve been like this once before, with him holding her after Shinnok’s defeat… maybe that’s why she lets him, a sense of familiarity in this unfamiliar situation. “As you wish.” He says it like it’s a quote, but it’s one she doesn’t recognize, and just looks at him blankly. He groans. “Not a romantic bone in your body, huh? Fine. I’ll take you to bed and make you forget your name, rank, and serial number.” She groans, smacking him in the shoulder with an open palm. He just grins and adjusts his grip on her, and she knows, as sure as she’s ever been about anything, that he won’t drop her.

She’s going to do her best to see if she can make him, though.


	2. Sparks Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which irrevocable decisions are made.

They make it halfway down the hall before Sonya does something with her tongue on his ear and a hand grazing across the fine hairs at the nape of his neck that makes Johnny’s knees wobble and his hands loosen just a bit. She takes advantage of the stumble and twists herself out of his grasp, landing on the hall floor.

“Oh hell no,” he manages, fingers snatching to catch onto her shirt, her pants, any part of her he can reach. “You’re not getting away that easily.” She doesn’t seem interested in going anywhere, though, just with being on her own feet. She leans back against the wall, her arms at her sides and one knee slightly bent. She’s got that look he loves - absolute confidence that says she’ll take whatever he can dish out. The tilt of her chin, that little grin at the corner of her mouth, the arch of an eyebrow, the way she’s meeting his eyes - it all combines into something that makes his pants profoundly tight.

He wants to see it all undone, watch her come to pieces. 

“As if I can’t handle you.” Her hand drops to rub his cock through his pants, and he cannot string two thoughts together at her touch. Instead, he kisses her again because that’s all he can manage, greedy for the taste of her. She’s sweet and salt and the faintest hint of something else, something purely Sonya. 

“You can handle me any time.” He puts his hands on the wall to either side of her shoulders, pressing his lips to her collarbones, moving to the hollow of her throat, and then soft skin beneath her jaw. 

He can taste a faint hint of salt, the smell of cinnamon and something citrusy. His fingers slide down her body, curl around her ass, and pull her hard to him. She writhes against him, and he moans into her mouth, convinced her heartbeat is as loud as his. Every brush of her hands sends sparks along his skin, makes his muscles want to go soft, and when she traces the shell of his ear with the tip of her tongue, it’s only her hands in his pockets that hold him up, and then she finds his cock again through the soft lining of his pockets and he can barely keep upright.

Minutes later (he’s not entirely sure how), they’ve ended up on his bed, amongst the smooth sheets and thin comforter. Somewhere one of them managed to smack a light switch on so it’s not entirely dark, for which he will be eternally grateful. He wants to see every minute of this. At the moment, flat on his back while she kneels over him, it’s the best view he’s ever had: the grin on her face has to match the one on his. He reaches up and traces the line of her jaw, a finger brushing against the curve of her lips. She nips at it, draws it into her mouth, and he has to close his eyes because all he can think about is those lips in other places.

“Damn, you’re beautiful.”

“You’re just saying that because I’m on top of you.” 

“Not _just_.” He edges back to sit up, then pulls her to his lap once more. She fits so _right_ , so perfectly, every curve and angle under his hands just the way it should be. He can’t keep his hands still, curving over her ass, feathering over her back, brushing across the fine hairs at the nape of her neck. She shudders as he does, and he feels his cock twitch at the sight. He brushes his fingers back again, barely touching, and he watches the muscles in her neck tighten, her chest shudder with a breath. A fair exchange for what she did in the hallway, after all.

“Well, you’re not so bad yourself,” she concedes as she catches her breath. She adjusts her position, deliberately grinding against him, and he exhales heavily.

“You have any idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that?”

“Since about thirty seconds after you laid eyes on me.”

“Close enough.” His eyes are on her lips, the one not currently lambasting him for a joke. They’re a little swollen, and he wants to kiss her again, mark the changes, feel the difference he’s made, if they’re still as impossibly soft as they were on the couch, in the hall. He tilts his head and brushes his nose against hers, then takes her lower lip into his mouth, feeling how she shivers. He didn’t know it was even possible for her to do that. 

His fingers confidently work open the buttons of her shirt to reveal the surprise of a lacy bra. He runs his thumbs over the tops of her breasts, and she moans softly and then clamps her mouth shut immediately as if she’s afraid of being heard. He gives her a moment to settle herself, feels her nails rake up the back of his neck and press down. Most of the women he’s been with have been loud and boisterous and have wanted the cachet of fucking Johnny Cage, Hollywood Superstar. They’ve been noisy and demanding and he’s been grateful for the soundproofing of his walls. But for whatever reason, this take-charge soldier, never shy to say what she thinks about anything, is suddenly much less vocal. He is determined to coax every gasp, every moan, every noise he can out of her. He wants to make all that composure vanish underneath his attention, make her writhe underneath him. 

“Hey. Look at me.” He waits for agonizing heartbeats until she meets his eyes. “Trust me, okay? Relax. This is just us. You don’t need to be quiet, not gonna bug the neighbors.” She nods but doesn’t say anything. He’s not sure she believes him, but there’s nothing he can do about that except finding a way to prove it. He knows she’s trusted him before, life or death, but sex is an entirely different thing than fighting a fallen Elder God. He bends his head back down to the skin still framed by silk and lace. She squirms on his lap as he pays homage to the bared skin before him, lips and tongue working a slow line down her sternum, laving the upper curves of her breasts. Her hands ghost across his neck, his back, his arms, with trails of warmth, and it’s definitely fanning the flames of lust. It’s only years of practice that ensure he can still nimbly unhook her bra one-handed. 

“Show-off,” she manages, laughing a little. 

“What, you want to keep it on? Can try to clip it back up. Not as good with doing that one-handed, but for you? Anything.” He can feel her heart pounding when he touches his lips to newly exposed skin, feeling the ragged rise and fall of her chest. 

“Didn’t say that.” 

Apparently as long as she can be a smartass, she’s fine. 

Her hands drop down to her shirt, and in a few easy motions, she’s suddenly topless, clothes on the floor. She looks back at Johnny, and he’s frozen with a bright, wide-eyed expression. Something knots in her stomach, unrelated to the liquid heat pooling between her legs. She expected him to be on top of her and just going at it, with no care for the niceties. Instead, he’s paying attention to every detail. It’s not what she expected at all from someone who only wanted to check her off his literal to-do list, but she can’t bear thinking about the alternative. Right now, it’s good. It’s damn good, and she’s got to stop second-guessing herself. 

She slides her hands under his shirt and works it off him. There’s the tattoo, and she shakes her head a little, feeling a smile tugging at her mouth. They’ve had more than enough fights where she’s spent time patching him up, listening to him bemoan a skincare regime on par with a model’s, but she’s never taken the time to admire him without a sense of guilt or a pressing need to keep his skin together. Now, she can - and does - enjoy the play of skin and muscle under her fingertips. 

“Yours are better than mine,” he says with a wink, cupping one of her breasts in one hand and taking it into his mouth, tongue swirling around her nipple. His other hand is fiery-hot as it cradles the other, thumb brushing along it. She sucks in a breath, and he switches his attentions.

“I’d be worried if they weren’t.” She struggles to string words together, voice breathier than she’d like it to be. One hand slides up into his hair, not quite holding him in place, but hopefully encouraging. He seems to be thoroughly enjoying it and she tilts her head back, and it seems to urge him on because his tongue works faster against her nipple before making wider circles and he draws his head away. There’s a noise - it can’t be from her, it _can’t_ \- and he continues to move his mouth down her body, laying her down on the bed slowly as he goes, until he hits her waistband. 

She expects him to work her naked almost immediately, but he surprises her with his restraint. He shifts position so he’s sitting up slightly, one arm stretched up and hand still busy with her breasts. The other hand he rubs between her thighs at the seam of her pants. She’s sure he can feel how wet she is already, even through the fabric. She waits for the self-satisfied comment, but his breath just catches instead. She shudders again, moaning at the friction on her clit. 

“You make the best sounds,” he says, voice pitched low. “I just want to hear you make those all night. Talk to me, babe. D’ you like this?” 

Some vestige of her is uncomfortable with voicing what she wants, and she can’t work her tongue enough to talk. She can feel the heat rising up her body, certain her cheeks are red, so she nods instead, rolling her hips up against his hand. One of her hands works down his chest, nails dragging slowly across that damnably well-maintained body, and she watches in satisfaction as he closes his eyes and shudders under her touch. He tilts his head back and she admires the lines of his neck and the fact that she can make him stop his own ministrations on her body. She circles one of his nipples with a thumb and he shudders again, and it seems to goad him on, his hand working harder between her thighs. It feels good, better than good. He stops, and she presses herself against his hand shamelessly. She makes a frustrated sound and he lets out a throaty chuckle.

“Seriously, all night long.” He moves again to kneel between her legs, running his hands up the outside of her pants. “Gotta get you out of these, first.” He makes his own frustrated noise as her belt resists him.

“You, foiled by a belt? Irony.” There, words again. Sniping is familiar territory. She can make her mouth work for that.

“I like belts. Just not on you. Want to see all of you.” He finally works the belt free and dips his tongue into her navel. He slides his fingers into the waistband of her pants and his hands are hot against her skin. His eyes catch hers, hazy with desire. “You’re fucking gorgeous, every inch of you.”

“All’s fair. Mine go off, so do yours.”

“So is this love or war, then?” She doesn’t respond, and he doesn’t seem to care that she doesn’t. He works her clothing free in a few practiced movements, and then her last claim to modesty is now somewhere on his bedroom floor. With the final pieces of clothing vanished, she’s abruptly and painfully cognizant of her situation: fairly sober, wholly naked, very aroused, and in Johnny Cage’s bed. He runs his fingers slowly over her hips, her upper thighs, carefully avoiding the patch of golden curls between her legs, fingers ghosting down along the muscle of her legs to her ankles. He’s silent - the man who can rarely shut up, lost for words. Her heart pounds, wondering what’s gone awry. Wondering if he’s done now that he’s gotten her out of her pants. She waits for a crow of victory, but it never comes.

Instead, to her surprise, he stretches out beside her again and kisses her, teeth clicking together at an awkward angle until they figure out how to join their mouths this way, while he works his own pants off. The room is oddly quiet except for their mutual sounds of pleasure and the rustle of fabric.

She feels his freed erection pressing against her suddenly, warm and smooth and hard, and he keeps his mouth sealed to hers almost awkwardly. 

“What,” she says as he pulls away slightly, “don’t want me to see the goods?” He buries his face into the side of her neck, and she can feel his body shake with suppressed laughter.

“The hell, Sonya, you’re gonna give me a complex,” he snorts, and she hears the thud of his clothing joining hers on the floor. One of her hands snakes along his body. His breath stutters as she begins to trace patterns across his chest with her mouth and fingers, moving slowly down his body. She wants this - not just sex, but the things he’s doing to her, the way she feels as he’s doing them. Her hand caresses him, moving downward inch by inch, mapping the smooth skin and the lines of muscle and the barely-there scars. Her hand wraps around his cock and he freezes. Her hand begins to explore the length of him, and she’s not surprised by how well he fills her hand, or the fact that she can already feel him slick with his own desire. 

“Like you don’t have one already,” she accuses, looking up at him from somewhere around his stomach. The look he gives her makes her heart pound, and she squeezes her thighs together unconsciously, making her struggle to catch her breath again. She takes her hand off of him, just long enough to slide her hand between her thighs and wet her fingers with her own arousal, before closing it back around his cock. 

“Oh fucking _hell,_ ” he swears and makes a wordless noise of pleasure, a hand reaching down to catch in her hair. “Come here, babe.” 

“Not yet,” and she’s not sure where that came from but it’s an impulse she’s going to roll with, and begins to work her hand in twisting motions, watching his face. His jaw tightens, his neck, his abdomen, and she revels in the fact that she’s doing this to him. His breathing becomes increasingly uneven, and she grins a little secret grin as he thrusts, as if despite himself, when she stops the movements.

“Please. Sonya, please.” She’s not sure if he wants more, or for her to stop, and the look on his face tells her he’s not sure either. She feels the heat growing between her thighs, reaches her free hand down between her own legs, her eyes on him as he clenches his teeth together. His eyes are on her, on her hand. “Woman, you’re gonna be the death of me. I just want to kiss you. Fuck. Well, that too.” He clenches a hand in the bedsheets, tilts his head back, hard, into the pillow, closing his eyes and struggling to even out his breaths.

She laughs a little, watching him laid out in a delicious sort of agony, and then works her mouth up his body again, her hand still working his shaft until he rolls her over onto her back, caging her with his arms and bending his head to kiss her again. 

“I’ve been waiting for this for years, babe, and we’ve got all night, and tomorrow, and until you’ve gotta go back to base. Anyway, you gotta give me something to look forward to.” He slides a hand between her thighs, keeping eye contact with her. “Still good?”

“Yeah,” she breathes, spreading her legs a little wider, tilting her hips to give him better access. He licks a trail along her hipbone, sliding his fingers along the slickness between her legs. She wants him inside her, some part of him, and he seems to sense her desperation. 

“I got something you want?”

“Fuck you, Johnny,” she growls, and he grins, thumb brushing over her clit and sending a burst of sensation through her that curls her toes. He slips a finger inside and she almost convulses at the sensation. He moves slowly and she doesn’t want slow, so she tries to push down, draw more of him into her, only to find him withdrawing his finger.

“Getting there, I promise.” Two fingers slide into her and she arches her back, unable to swallow down the moan of pleasure. “Oh, that hits the spot, does it?” She closes her eyes, feels his body move, and sudden heat and warmth on her as he takes a nipple into his mouth. She clenches her thighs together unconsciously against his hand, muscles tight. He makes a startled noise, almost pained. “Don’t take off my hand, babe,” he says thickly, flexing his hand and fingers as if to regain sensation, and it sends another pulse through her as he spreads his fingers out against her inner walls. 

“Sorry, not sorry.” She dredges up the insincere apology. 

“Hey, at least I know you like it.” He kisses her again, open-mouthed and messy, before shifting back and turning his attention to the slick heat between her legs. 

It’s like the Academy Awards and Christmas and his birthday all strung together, with his fingers buried inside her, his mouth against her breasts or her lips. Every sound she makes, every time she bucks against him, rolls her hips, he can feel a little more of his self-control disappearing. He pays close attention, fingers crooking and thumb working just so, bringing her up to the edge of climax multiple times until he can tell one more time will just piss her off. He waits until she’s fisted her hands in his hair and he can feel her working herself against his hand. She’s soaking wet, and he is sure that if he turned his mouth to her she’d lose it. It’s tempting, so fucking tempting, but something tells him that all the composure she’s lost will come straight back to her if he starts in with his mouth.

He sits up, the musky scent of both of their arousals rich in the room, and his eyes follow the curves of her body up to rest on her face. The noises she makes as he does are needy things, a growl, a whine, and music to his ears. He’d do this forever if he could, just lose himself in watching her. The muscle, but the scars, too - the nicks and divots and raised bumps that show she works hard, plays hard, isn’t afraid of anything she could fight. 

“Johnny…” Her voice hitches, a hint of pleading threading through it, nudging her hips towards him. Her eyes are a blue gone almost glassy, and yet something in them promises that if she doesn’t get what she wants, she’ll take it. He’d love that, one night - but not tonight.

“You sure? I gotta know.” He’s proud of the control in his voice, considers it an Oscar-worthy performance. “I don’t want tomorrow to be some sort of-”

“Yeah, I’m sure.” Her hands rake down his back, nails digging in. “Why, gonna chicken out now?”

“Miracle I have this much restraint.”

“Then what’s holding you back? Johnny Cage, performance anxiety?” She’s goading him and they both know it. This may be the only time he gets to do this and he’s going to enjoy every second of it - even her teasing.

“Never. I just wanna hear you say it. I want to hear it from your lips. I remember you saying ‘not interested’, years ago.” He presses himself against her ever so slightly, watching her eyes close for a moment as the head of his cock brushes up against her. He is busy memorizing this - how she bites her lower lip, the way her eyes are almost lambent in the low light, the way their bodies move together like this is a scene they’ve blocked a dozen times. “Say it, babe. Tell me what you want.” All he wants is to be inside her, but not until she says it. 

“You,” she whispers, so softly he’s sure he imagined it. Like she has to admit it to herself first. Then, more confidently, “I want you, Johnny.” With that confession, the last leash on his restraint disappears. His eyes are on her face as he slides inside her slowly, forcing himself to take his time, savoring the sensation of her around him. Her hands draw him deeper until their hips are flush and his world is only her. He hears her let out a satisfied noise, and he doesn’t want to move, feeling himself settled to the hilt inside her. He’s afraid anything he does will shatter the moment - and then instinct and need and hunger take over and he can’t stay still. 

She arches up under him and he feels her hips rise, and he slides a hand down, under her ass, holding her tighter against him. He opens his mouth and words begin to spill out of their own accord. “I love how you sound, how you move, that look on your face when I’ve got my fingers in you… The look now, when I’m inside you. Everything about this. Fuck, woman.” 

This feels good, as good as she’d hoped but never wanted to admit - even if he won’t shut up for more than a minute. Her fingers close around his body wherever she can find purchase, both of them slick with sweat and muscles flexing with their movements. She rocks against him, feels his grasp tighten around her as they work together to find a new rhythm that suits them both. All she can think of is how good this is, the startling realization of how much she’s wanted it without consciously knowing. She looks up, heart pounding, at the sight of him between her legs, and at the way he’s biting his lower lip.

“I’m not gonna break,” she growls.

“That a challenge?” 

“Try me.” It’s the closest she can get to asking, and he knows it. 

“Your wish is my command,” There’s a new tone to his voice, one that makes something inside her spark. He quickens his pace, becoming more forceful, sending ripples of pleasure through her. She can’t get enough, and her hands roam over him again, caressing and demanding at turns. Her hands slide up his chest and knot into his hair and she pulls him down roughly to her lips. She is consumed by desire and need. She needs this, she needs him, she needs -

He pulls back slightly, finding a different angle, and moves one hand to brush against her clit. The flat of his thumb strokes, presses, nudges, and seems to be the last stimulation she needs. There’s never been a better sound than his name on her lips when he feels her lose herself, long ripples of muscle clenching tight around him, her body flexing against him. There’s never been a better sight than her half-lidded blue eyes looking up. She cants her head, almost like she’s considering a new tactic. Then with slow deliberation, she cups her breasts, rolls her nipples between her fingers, and his eyes try to focus on her face but can’t. He can only focus on her fingers, her nails - fuck, they’re painted, and why didn’t he notice that until now? - playing with her breasts. Because she’s doing it for him. Because she thinks he’ll like it. The thought sends him careening over the edge right after her. Her name is his litany, and when he drops his head, his breathing is heavy and ragged as he finds her lips with his. There really is no place better than this, not in all the realms. Her fingers spread across his back, anchoring him to her.

“You gonna survive?” Her voice is sultry in a way he’s never heard, low and rich. He groans in response, tucking his head alongside her neck, turning to kiss the pulse in time with his.

“You,” he rasps, nuzzling her neck, “are very special forces.”

“And your reputation is not _total_ bullshit.” She runs her fingers through his hair, idly smoothing out the tangles she’s made. “And you really can’t shut up for more than a minute.” He props himself up, reluctantly sliding off and out of her to lay alongside, and she makes a soft noise of dismay at his absence. 

“Well, there are other ways we could try to keep my mouth busy…” he winks and she rolls her eyes at him. “How much have you heard about my reputation?” He narrows his eyes, and her lips move in a secret smile.

“Enough. You’ve bragged about it most of the time, anyway.” She jabs him with one finger in the chest. “And here I am, another notch on your bedpost.”

“No.” He answers quickly, hating that she would think that his opinion of her is so low. Maybe he jumps on the defensive too quickly, by the flicker in her eyes and the minute way she pulls away. “Not you, babe. Never you.” He presses an open-mouthed kiss to her forehead, over a tiny scar he’s never noticed before. “You’re worth way more than a notch… and that did _not_ sound right.” 

“Damn right it didn’t.” She pokes him in the chest again. “You’re going to have to make it up to me.”

He can feel the grin on his face, muscles stretching and refusing to relax. He’s still surprised by hers, the one lurking at the corners of her mouth and dancing in her eyes. She’s happy in a way he’s rarely seen. Unreserved. He smooths hair away from her face, gazing down into her eyes. “Got to be honest with you, I was not expecting this.” He slides an arm under her neck and draws her closer. “Not gonna argue, though.”

“It wasn’t something I’d planned either,” she points out. “Otherwise I would have come more prepared.”

“Oh, so the lacy stuff is for everyone?”

“Hey, you don’t buy something like that unless you’re going to wear it.”

“Well, you need someone to appreciate your lingerie, let me know. I will clear my schedule.” His other hand runs along her side, the outer curve of one breast, thumb skimming across a nipple. She shudders and then slides her body closer to him, sucking in a breath, and he grins in satisfaction. “Not that you need to wear anything to be appreciated. I’m… glad we didn’t do this before, actually.”

“Really.” She looks at him, raising an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

“I would never let you out of bed. We’d’ve done a shit job saving the world.” 

She snorts and traces idle designs on the expanse of his toned chest, still disbelieving she’s here, doing this. They’ve had a hell of a rough few years. For once, the whole point being pleasure is a nice change. When’s the last time she laughed in bed, so comfortable she cracked jokes? She stretches out to the tips of her toes, feels him twist her hair around his hand, and she pulls in a shallow breath, heart quickening and feeling a pulse of lust in response, much to her surprise. He loosens his grip, brushing his lips across her forehead again. He lingers there, lips just pressed against her, for a few moments. She wonders if he’s gone to sleep that fast, and it surprises her when he sits up. She rolls onto her stomach, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Relax. Gonna go grab a drink. Hell of a workout. You want anything?”

“Water.” Her lips twitch. “And a towel.” 

“Your wish is my command, milady.” He winks but sees the half-fisted hand coming for him and catches it. He brushes his lips across her knuckles, turning her hand over and kissing the pulse still pounding away at her wrist. She follows him with her eyes as he walks out, and she can see the red marks she’s made all along his back, crescents on his hips and thighs and biceps, long marks down his back. He returns with a glass of water and the requested towel, and then drops back into the bed, limp and boneless. When she’s settled herself again, he’s there behind her, 

One of his hands spreads out on her hip, broad and warm and oddly comforting. “You mind if…” he trails off. She reaches behind her, runs a hand along his side, and pulls the blankets up to her chin.

“’S fine.”

“Sleep well, Sonya.” His fingers shift, find a new place to settle, a dip and a rise that his hand seems made to fit.

“You too, Johnny.”

There’s another lazy kiss on the nape of her neck, the press of his face into her hair. He murmurs something low that she can’t catch. Sleep seizes her, dragging her down into its depths in short order. If she dreams, she does not remember. 

In the morning she wakes abruptly, body attuned to a military schedule. There is a sickening moment where she cannot remember where she is. The bed itself feels wrong, sheets too slick and mattress too soft. And there’s a tilt to it that there shouldn't be, because _there is someone next to her_. She bolts upright and all of it comes back in a series of memories and phantom sensations that send residual heat up her face and a twitch between her legs. Beside her, Johnny is asleep on his stomach, muscles lax in unconsciousness, face half-buried in a pillow, hair half-spiked half-flattened and looking faintly ridiculous. They’ve been friends for years, and last night satisfied her curiosity, but now… shit, he’s going to wake up and want to talk about things. And she doesn’t know what she thinks. She liked it. Fuck, she more than liked it. She wasn’t supposed to like it. A date. One and done. That’s what this was supposed to be. Not - this, whatever this is. She can feel her face begin to burn, and she’s not sure if it’s embarrassment or shame or something else. 

She takes several minutes to try to get her brain in order, trying not to move so she doesn’t wake him up. The rebellious part of her that was in control last night is still enjoying the strange feeling of waking up beside someone. She extricates herself from the bed and runs a shower to scrub off the remains of the previous night’s indulgences. She works hard to convince herself it’s to get the taste of alcohol, the taste of him, out of her mouth. The panic, the realization of her loss of control, begins to fully set in as she’s toweling off her hair. 

Back in the bedroom and half-dressed, trying to find where he flung her underwear, she hears a tired yawn from the bed. Johnny sits up, groggy, rubbing his eyes, and smiles at her. She wonders what the hell he did to her to make her stomach knot that way. She’s been under no illusions he’s interested in her, but she hasn’t been shopping around for a partner; too much accountability to someone else. So why - how - is this Hollywood playboy doing this to her? She clenches her jaw so hard it hurts. All she wants to do is climb back in that bed and press her body against him and fuck him again, and that want terrifies her more than any of the kombats she’s ever fought, any of the ops she’s run. 

“Sonya? Is everything okay? Thought you had the day off…” He’s rumpled and tired, his disappointment palpable. He reaches up, scratching at his jaw, and yawns again.

“I gotta get back to base.” 

“Let me make you breakfast before you go. Don’t want to send you off to a briefing or whatever it is starving.”

“Can’t. No time.” It’s a lie but she doesn’t want to think of what will happen if she stays. Whatever it is about him that undid her, she can’t afford to let it happen again. The helplessness frightens her, and she has to get out of here as quickly as she can before she does something stupid. Get out of here, get back to familiar territory, buckle back down to what she knows, what she can rely on, what doesn’t change.

Nudging aside his pants with a foot, she finds her underwear and eyes them, lip curling back at the sight. They’re an embarrassment and a lost cause, so they are summarily jammed in a pocket. She sits on the edge of the bed and pulls her pants on without them. He reaches out with a hand, and she, unthinking, moves closer. He hooks his arms around her and pulls her back down onto the bed beside him. More stupidly, she lets him.

“You sure you need to go? I can make coffee if you don’t have time for breakfast.”

“Change of status in something. I - I have to get back.” She can’t keep her voice even, and he drops his hands, looking at her face with concern.

“Is it Quan Chi? You want me to come along?” Startled, she shakes her head. “Damn. Well, duty calls, I guess.” He reaches up and tucks a few strands of wet hair back behind her ears. “Look - I know you’ve said a bunch of times, that you’re not looking for-“

She presses two fingers to his mouth. “Stop talking, Johnny. Just - stop. We had a good night. It was fun. We’ve worked together for years, done a lot of shit together, and I don’t want to wreck what we’ve got.” She removes her fingers, presses her lips to his for a long moment but her mouth staying pointedly closed. She knows if she opens her mouth, if she feels the jolt of his tongue against hers, her willpower will vanish.

He keeps going, gamely. “You’re welcome here any time, day or night. Just gimme a call. Now that everything’s back to normal… don’t be a stranger, okay? Don’t make it too long.”

“I’ll be in touch.” She makes the promise honestly. It may just not be as fast as he’d like. “Thanks, Johnny.” 

She wonders if it sounds as final to his ears as it does to hers.

The drive back to base is full of drive-through coffee, loud music, and self-abuse. She wants to berate herself, she wants to be angry, but all she can do is wonder what the hell is wrong with her because she liked it. She _liked_ going out for dinner - even if, or maybe because, he cracked jokes the entire time. He’d presumed the usual amount - and he’d let her set the boundaries. He’d picked a movie that wasn’t a cheap way to get in her pants, and the bastard actually made popcorn. He’d let her lead. He made sure she got off. It had been all about her - and for a man who was always determined to be the center of attention, that blew her mind. 

He’d even gotten her a fucking towel and a drink after sex, instead of forgetting she existed and rolling over to fall asleep. The asshole did everything _right_ , and she can’t think of a single reason she’d turn down a second date. Except for the fact that it’s Johnny Cage and he’s going to be insufferable, and pictures of the two of them walking down the street will be all over the tabloids by lunch, and they’ll be married by dinner. God, her _mother_ is going to call. And that’ll go over like a fucking lead balloon. Yeah, of course, I’m banging an _actor_ now. Dad’d be so proud.

She works herself thoroughly into a self-righteous fury, managing to pin everything on Johnny. She achieves a nearly incandescent rage by the time she gets back to her apartment on post. She is convinced she looks like she was ridden hard and put away wet and it’s all Cage’s fault. Every indignity hangs off his shoulders. She will, resolutely, not think about the amazing sex, and the fact that she liked spending time with him. She’s just another notch on his bedpost, no matter what he says.

“Home from a hot date, Blade?” A neighbor asks as she shoulders her apartment door open. Sonya looks over, trying for an expression both skeptical and annoyed.

“Yeah, you know me. Wild night,” she deadpans. The other soldier’s answering snort of disbelief is satisfying in its own way. 

Once inside, she strips down and throws everything in her laundry basket and stands in her shower for far longer than she ought to, pressing her forehead to the tile. She can’t decide what it is she’s trying to wash away, if it’s guilt or shame or something else. Not even a hot shower, sluicing off the scent of him and his fancy soap, makes her feel better. 

Fuck Johnny Cage. Except that’s what got her into this situation in the first place.

Worst of all, she wants to do it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You people with the kudos and such before I even post the smutty part. I adore you.


End file.
